For twenty years Seamus Harper lived on earth under the brutal oppression of Nietzscheans. After he finally flees and makes a new life for himself on the Andromeda, he suddenly finds his past catching up with him, as the people and events of that past com

Disclaimer: All characters or
references to Andromeda belong to Tribune Entertainment, not to me.

Author: Diamond-Raven

Story Rating: R (violence and
sexual situations and some language)

Summary: For twenty years, Seamus Harper lived on
Earth, having to survive poverty, death and the brutal oppression
bestowed upon all kludges by the Nietzscheans occupying the planet.
After fleeing and finally making a new life for himself, his past
comes back to haunt him as he is forced to face his past and all the
events and people in it.

'The heavens burned, the stars cried out, and
under the ashes of infinity, Hope, scarred and bleeding, breathed at
last.'

-Ulatempa Poetess

XXXXXX

Harper adjusted his goggles and turned on his nano welder. Sparks
flew around him as he neatly cut into the panel in front of him. He
moved over a bit and finished slicing through the metal. With a
clatter, the panel fell off the wall and crashed onto the floor.

Harper looked down. "Oops." He mumbled, picking it up.

Dylan glanced over at him from where he was leaning against the
piloting chair, talking to Beka.

"Mr.Harper, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't break my
ship apart."

Harper flashed him a grin. "No prob, boss."

He turned the panel over in his hands and hammered a few dents out
of it with the back of his welder. When it was as straight as it
could be, he lifted it up to the gaping hole he had cut it out of.
Holding it with one hand, he rummaged around in his tool belt until
he found what he was looking for. Slowly, he turned the soldering
wand on and started welding the panel back into place.

"Do you need some help?" Came a voice from behind him. He
didn't need to turn around to know it was Trance.

He turned off the solder and took off the goggles. He grinned at
her. "Thanks but no thanks purpleness. I'm done."

He noticed Trance was staring at him.

He frowned. "What?"

She continued staring at him, a confused frown on her face.

He shifted around uncomfortably. "What?"

She pointed at his arm. "What was that?"

Harper glanced down at his arm to where she pointing. All he saw
was the sleeve of his navy blue shirt covering that part of his arm.

He had suddenly gone numb. Why was she pointing at his arm? Oh my
God.

He gave her a big grin, hoping to divert her attention.

"What was what?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded lighter
than he felt. He was slowly starting to shake, panic creeping into
him. She couldn't have seen it. No way. She couldn't have.

Trance however, wasn't being shaken off. She continued frowning
and pointed at his arm again.

"Those black spots on your arm. I saw them when you were lifting
up the panel. What were they? They looked like stars."

Harper found the hairs on the back of his neck standing up
straight. He blinked a few times to keep his eyes from widening in
panic. He struggled to keep the grin on his face.

"Oh, those? Just birthmarks, Trance. Humans get them all the
time. You're born with them. No big deal." He quipped, trying to
keep his voice steady. He had to get out of here. He couldn't let
this conversation keep on going. He had to shake her somehow.
Especially now that Dylan was slowly starting to come over here too.
Damn, damn, damn. She had seen them. Damn.
He was always careful never to wear sleeveless shirts around any of
them. Damn. Stupid panel.

She was still frowning at him.

Panic was slowly starting to make him shake.

"They're just birthmarks, Trance. Nothing special. Now, sorry
for cutting this conversation short, Trance, but I got work to do in
Engineering." He managed to say. Then he roughly pushed past her
and nearly ran out of Command, his entire body shaking now.

He kept on walking, careful to keep the fear from showing on his
face. He didn't want Rommie to notice anything and notify Dylan. Or
Beka. Man, this was bad.

Damn, damn, damn. Why did she have to
notice them? Why? It had been years since anybody had last seen them.
Or asked about them.

For about the millionth time in his life he started berating
himself for not getting rid of them. But now it was too late. Now,
there would be too many questions if he was going to go and get them
removed. Questions which would need answers. Answers which would get
him killed.

Damn.

He stopped walking and leaned heavily against the wall. Slowly, he
closed his eyes and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his
head leaning against the wall.

Shit.

Why now? Why now, when everything was going so well? Why did his
past always have to come and bit him in the ass when everything was
going well?

Why now?

XXXXXX

Fourteen year old Seamus Harper wandered along the streets,
shivering from the cold. Night had come and enveloped the streets in
darkness. He pulled his dirty, worn through shirt tighter around his
thin frame. He was shaking from the cold. He bit his lip to keep his
teeth from chattering. He didn't want anybody to hear him.

He walked along slowly, staying in the gutter. He didn't like
walking on the sidewalks. Always some drunk or flash fried idiot who
sat lurking in the shadows waiting for a young and weak thing like
himself to walk by.

He only knew too well what one of these idiots would do to him.
Either beat him up because he didn't have any money or drugs on him
for them, or they would sell him to somebody to screw with and then
they'd keep the money.

Neither scenerio was too pleasant.

He kept on walking, igoring the painful hunger pangs from his
stomach and tightened his shirt around him.

He heard a noise beside him and instantly leapt aside, his hand
instinctively going down to his shoe where he kept his knife.

He kept absolutely still, his eyes scanning the dark sidewalk.
When nothing happened, he straightened up and kept on walking, his
eyes still glancing right and left, ready if anyone decided to jump
him.

It had been like this for months. Walking around in the gutters,
begging and stealing money and food everyday and sleeping in the
gutters too, waking up every few hours to listen for any drunk
lurkers who might harm him.

Everyday was the same. Nothing ever changed. Some days he wouldn't
get any food, some days he'd be beat up by a group of drug crazed
punks, but other than that, his entire life was the same, day in and
day out.

He guessed he was still in shock. That's why everyday seemed the
same. So monotone. So dull. He still had a hard time getting used to
the fact that he wasn't at home anymore.

Home.

He smiled bitterly as he walked, kicking the dirt with his shoes.
Home.

Everybody had called the camp that. Even he had. Well, why
wouldn't he? The camp had been his home for all the fourteen years
he had been alive for. Where his mother had raised him after his
father had left. Where he had played with his cousins for hours,
running around and getting in trouble and then running away from the
Nietzschean guards. Where he had run to his uncle Peter whenever his
father had come back home and had gotten drunk and Seamus had wanted
to run to somebody to protect him. Where he had spend endless years
running around with his best friend Osim, getting into trouble
together and laughing together. Where his aunt Nina had often come to
his house and sat talking with his mother for hours about absolutely
nothing. They had been happy. Poor. Hungry. Constantly paranoid. But
also happy.

Then the Magog had to come and ruin everything.

He spat onto the ground, his eyes growing bitter with hatred.

Why did they even have to come? Why couldn't they just leave
them alone? And of course, just to top things off, they had to come
right after the famine too. Everybody had been too weak to defend
themselves.

Everybody had tried to run. It was useless to fight. They had no
weapons. Just some sticks and rocks which they had tried to throw at
them. But throwing rocks and sticks at Magog was about as effective
as hitting a Nietzschean with a shovel. It accomplished nothing
except making them madder.

His aunt had tried to run. Seamus remembered how she had tried to
run, carrying both of her little children in her arms. He had tried
to run to her to help her, but the Magog had been faster. They had
grabbed her and burned her entire body with their acid venom. She had
screamed and had dropped her children to clutch at her face where the
skin was peeling off and burning.

Seamus had run closer, intent on grabbing his cousins who now lay
on the ground, trying to get up, their eyes terrified as they stared
at the Magog above them. But he had been too late. An entire hord of
Magog had jumped onto the two children and had engulfed them.

By the time they were done, the two had been paralysed and
infested.

Seamus had tried creeping closer, his mind not letting him accept
the fact that there was nothing more for him to do. Suddenly, his
uncle had stared screaming at him to run. Seamus looked up and saw a
Magog standing infront of his uncle, pulling at his arm. His uncle
was trying to fight him off, at the same time, hysterically screaming
at him to run away.

But he couldn't move. His feet seemed to be planted to the
ground. He couldn't move. Even when he saw the Magog throw his head
around and saw his uncle flying through the air with a scream of pain
as his arm tore off and remained in the Magog's mouth.

Even when he looked down and saw his mother lying there on the
ground in front of him.

She had tried to run to him. Tried to save him. But she had been
too slow.

The Magog had jumped on her from behind and slammed her body to
the ground and had immediately started tearing her to shreds. With
one last scream of anguish, she died.

Seamus stared down at her, her entire body mangled and bleeding,
so badly torn apart that he could hardly recognize her. Her entire
face had almost been ripped in half, but he could still see her eyes.

They stared at up him, pleading him to help her.

But he couldn't. It was too late. Too late to save her.

He slowly bent over and softly closed her eyes. Then he turned and
walked away from her body.

That had been the last time he had seen his mother.

XXXXXX

Harper squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from welling up.
Why did she have to die? And that painful way? Why couldn't she
have died quietly in bed of old age?

But who was he kidding?

Of course she hadn't made it. Nobody had. Out of 5000 only 60
had made it. And barely 60.

Even his uncle, the strongest out of all of them hadn't made it.
Three days after the attack, an infection had started in the stump of
his arm. The lack of medical supplies at the camp made him basically
helpless. Although Harper had stayed up with him all of those three
nights, giving him water and the little food he managed to scrape
together, it was all in vain. He died during the third night, but not
before begging Seamus to burn his two children, not wanting them to
go through the pain which would rip through their bodies as the Magog
babies would start to hatch and eat their way out of the two
children.

In a daze, Seamus had gone through with his wish. When the
survivors in the camp had built a huge bonfire, throwing on all the
bodies of the infested, he had grabbed his two cousins and dragged
their paralyzed bodies onto the burning heap, ignoring the smell of
burnt flesh which stung his nose and eyes.

He had quietly closed their eyes first and wished them a better
life after this one. He wasn't sure what other life that was, but
he knew it had to be better than this.

Any life had to be better than this.

XXXXXX

The Nietzscheans had liquidated the camp soon after that. With
only 60 people left, they didn't have the strength to grow the
thousands of kilograms of crops which the Nietzscheans demanded from
them every week.

They had been gathered together one day and had been ordered to
leave. Just like that. Not being allowed to take anything with them,
not being allowed to be given a place to go.

The Nietzscheans had never given a damn about them, and that day,
it had really showed.

Standing there in the crisp morning cold, shivering underneath the
filthy shirt he had clenched around himself and ignorning the hunger
pangs from his stomach, Seamus glared up at the Nietzschean guards
who sniffed and told them to get going. Seamus opened his mouth to
mouth him off, but thought better of it. He didn't want to get
another beating. He had gotten one when he had been seven. For
stealing some food off a sleeping guard. It hadn't been fun. He had
sworn right then and there never to open his mouth unless it was
absolutely necessary.

This wasn't one of those times.

He glanced sideways and saw Osim, glaring at the guard too.

Seamus moved over a little and was about to whisper to Osim to
keep his mouth shut. Complaining and whining would only get them all
a beating.

But Osim didn't notice Seamus trying to keep him quiet.

He angrily opened his mouth, glaring at the guard.

"So this is it, huh? You don't need us anymore and you just
tell us to get out of here?"

The guard glanced at him. "You're a quick one." He said, his
eyes flashing dangerously, clearly warning Osim not to step over the
line.

Seamus moved over and sharply kicked Osim in the shins, not caring
whether the guard would hit him for moving without being told to. Oh,
God, Osim. Just shut up.

But Osim was too angry to notice Seamus kicking him.

"Well, I gots news for ya Nietzschy, we don't need you neither
so why don't you pack up and get the fuck out of here?"

The guards eyebrows shot up and his hand flashed out and he
grabbed Osim by the front of his shirt and yanked him up until he was
hanging above the ground, staring into the Nietzschean's eyes.
Panic slowly gripped him as he started to struggle.

The Nietzschean laughed. Seamus shuddered and clenched his teeth.
He hated their laughter. They always laughed. And always in such a
way that it made him feel worthless. Little. Inferior. He hated their
laughter.

He opened his mouth to try and save Osim, but he knew that there
was nothing he could do. He closed his mouth again and turned away,
not wanting to see his best friend being dragged off. But he heard
him. Heard his screams, his cries for help. He had even called his
name once. Begging for help. But Seamus didn't turn around and
blocked out the sounds. There was nothing he could do anymore.

XXXXXX

Seamus tripped over the sleeping form of a person sleeping in the
gutter. He fell onto the pavement, scraping his knees on the hard
ground. He bit his lip harder to keep from crying out. The less
attention you drew to yourself, the better.

That's why he didn't try to help Osim. Not only would it have
been useless, but it would have resulted in him getting beaten as
well. It was selfish, he knew, but there was no other way to survive.

Osim had been dragged to the little chamber the Nietzscheans had
by the gate of the camp, reserved for punishment purposes. His shirt
had been ripped off and he had been tied onto the table, screaming
and crying for help the entire time. Seamus hadn't turned around
from where he was standing. He knew only too well what that table
felt like. Knew how terrified Osim was at the moment.

Don't think about it, Seamus. Don't think about it.

He remained standing there, listening to his friends cries for
help slowly change into screams of pain as the whipping started.

Don't think about it.

He tried to block out the sounds, but they tore through his mind,
not letting him ignore them. They went on and on. The heavy cracking
of the whip. The insane screams of pain tearing from Osim's throat.

Don't think about it.

And suddenly, there was silence. Seamus thought he had gone deaf,
but then the person standing beside him coughed and he realized that
Osim was dead.

He didn't know how he knew. He just did.

He saw people die everyday. Knew how silent they got when they
stopped moving.

Osim was dead.

Just like his entire family, Osim was dead now too.

He blinked, shock still engulfing him.

The Nietzschean guard came out of the chamber, stripping black,
blood soaked gloves off his strong hands. He came over to the small
group of huddled, wasted people.

Silently, he pointed at the gate.

Slowly, without a word, the group of people started moving towards
the gate, dragging their tired, wasted bodies along the ground.

Seamus slowly followed the crowd, not noticing the gate as they
passed through it, not noticing when the dirt road they were walking
on turned to cement, not noticing when the people around him started
dropping to the ground, their bodies no longer moving, their eyes
staring blankly at the sky above them.

When the shock finally wore off, Seamus Harper, age fourteen,
found himself in the heart of a wasted, broken city, completely
helpless, and completely alone.

XXXXXX

He clutched his stomach as he walked along. God, he was hungry. He
didn't remember the last time he had eaten something. Was it
yesterday? The day before? He didn't know. It didn't matter.
Thinking about it wouldn't make the hunger go away.

He had learned that very quickly too. Fantasizing about things
which would never happen only set him up for more pain. So he tried
thinking about the present. Not the past. Too much pain there. Not
the future. Too much hope there.

He tripped over the sleeping form of a drunk lying in the gutter.
He picked himself up and was about to keep on walking, when he saw
the drunk clutching something in his hands. He quietly crept over and
bent over the snoring body of the man. He reeked of alcohol and dirt.
Seamus ignored the stench and silently slid his hands along the man's
jacket, searching for pockets. Finally, he found them. He quietly
rummaged around inside of them, his fingers grabbing hold of a few
thrones. He yanked out his hands, growing excited by the prospect of
having food soon. He was about to get up and run away, when he saw
the beer bottle still in the man's hand. Seamus glanced around in
the shadows. Nobody could see him.

Without another thought, he grabbed the beer bottle. Pushing
himself off the ground, he ran as quickly as he could down the
street.

He ducked into a broken doorway of a dirty store and huddled
there, clutching the bottle and the thrones in his hands.

Suddenly, he heard the familiar sound of heavy boots stomping down
the street. His eyes widened in panic and he crept further back into
the shadows.

Nietzschean night patrol.

They roamed around the streets, killing anybody who came across
their path. They loathed the gutter sleepers and the few druggies who
lay around the streets all night and spent their nights shooting them
or beating them up for entertainment.

Seamus pushed himself further back, careful to breath as quietly
as possible. He had been caught by them once. He had been sleeping
the gutters and they had grabbed him.

Seamus shuddered and closed his eyes at the memory. They had
beaten him up and then stripped his clothes off of him and laughed at
him until bitter tears of humiliation stung his cheeks.

He had sworn right then and there never to be caught by them
again.

He clutched the beer bottle and took a quick sip. He shuddered and
nearly spat it out. It tasted like urine. Disgusting.

But, it was still good alcohol. He shrugged and drank some more.

The boots came closer. He started panicking and started wildly
looking around himself for a better place to hide. Sitting in a
fucking doorway wouldn't do him any good.

Suddenly, a voice from the shadows whispered to him. "In here.
Quick."

He stared around himself, wondering where the voice had come from,
when a arm shot out and grabbed him and yanked him behind a piece of
wood leaning against the wall.

Seamus landed on his face on the ground, the beer bottle nearly
having smashed against the wall, but he quietly lay there, not daring
to move.

The boots came closer and he heard one of them laughing as they
slowly passed by. Seamus gritted his teeth. He hated their laughter.

He stayed lying on the ground, shaking from panic, until the sound
of the boots faded away into the night.

Only then did he push himself up and brush the dirt off his shirt
and turn around to see who that mysterious hand had belonged to.

He found himself facing a young boy, who couldn't have been any
older than he was. He had shortly cropped, filthy black hair and his
eyes were the color of pale ice. They shone in the faded light from
the moon.

Seamus stared at him. "Thanks." He mumbled. The other boy
shrugged.

"Nothing you wouldn't have done for me."

Seamus didn't take his eyes off him, his guard still up. He had
learned very quickly that it wasn't smart to trust people quickly.
It was too easy to get stabbed in the back. Slowly, he held the beer
bottle towards him.

The boy was also still staring at Seamus, judging and measuring
him up with his eyes. He didn't hesitate however, when the beer
bottle was offered to him. He took it and took a swig. He made a
face.

"Man, this tastes like piss."

Seamus grinned warily. "No kidding. But it's still beer."

The other boy smiled back, some of the suspicion gone from his
eyes. "I'm Pez. Pez Madden."

Seamus continued staring at him, slowly letting his guard down.
Anybody who told him their name so fast must be trustworthy.

"I'm Seamus. Seamus Harper."

The boy nodded, still smiling.

"How long have you been running around the streets for?" Pez
asked him, taking another sip and handing the bottle back to Seamus.

He took a sip and shrugged. "Couple of months."

Pez nodded. "You didn't look like a newbie. I've been here
almost my whole life. You got parents?"

He shook his head. "Just my dad, but he left two years ago.
Haven't seen him since."

Pez brushed some of the dirt off his own filthy shirt. "My ma
and pa both died in a Nietzschean raid a year ago. I've been on my
own since."

He looked up at Seamus. "Hungry?"

Seamus noddded. "Haven't had a bite in what seems like
forever."

Pez nodded and leapt up. Seamus stood up too and they stood there
for a bit, listening to any suspicious sounds. When they heard none,
they walked out from behind the wood and started walking down the
street.

When they came across the sleeping form of a couple of flash fried
druggies, both of them set to work rummaging through their pockets,
without a word.

When they were done, they got up and ran down the street, still
not talking. Only when they were a safe distance away did they show
each other what they had gotten.

A piece of bread and an old chicken bone with some of the meat
still on it.

Pez grinned at him.

"We make a good team."

Seamus smiled back. "Seems like we do."

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